Mr. Justice

by Scott Douglas Gerber

  Westfall stood up, walked to the couch, and handed the president the list. He felt like a jury foreman delivering a verdict form to a judge.

  The president studied the list. Three of the names were typed. He smiled when he noticed that a fourth name had been penciled in. “You finally managed to twist Cheryl’s arm, huh?”

  Westfall returned the president’s smile. It felt good to smile under the circumstances. Strange, but good. “Yeah. It wasn’t easy, but she finally agreed to let me throw her hat into the ring. I think she’d make a terrific choice.”

  The president folded the list and placed it in his pocket. “So do I. But not as terrific as Peter McDonald… . Pray for him, will you Jim?”

  “Certainly, Mr. President.”

  The two old friends dropped to their knees and asked for God’s mercy.

  CHAPTER 34

  Clay Smith had been tailing Kelsi Shelton for the better part of three miles. He had always liked Kelsi. Every first-year student at UVA law school was assigned an upper-class mentor—a more experienced classmate who could explain the ropes and who was available for questions during the daunting 1L experience—and Kelsi was his. Talk about serendipity, Clay said to himself as he made a left turn onto University Avenue. He knew the person that his uncle had told him to kill.

  It wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t be easy for a couple of reasons. First, Clay had never killed a white person before. A nigger, yes. Clay had killed two niggers in his young life. But whites and niggers were different. Niggers weren’t people. Every klansman knew that. Clay certainly did.

  The second reason that he would have trouble killing Kelsi was because he liked her, and not merely in the sense that a new student liked a mentor. No, Clay had romantic feelings for Kelsi. He had had them for a long time.

  Kelsi pulled onto Rugby Road and maneuvered her VW Beetle into a vacant parking space.

  Clay whizzed past her and found a spot about two blocks down the street. He switched off the ignition, popped his keys into his pocket, and started to jog in Kelsi’s direction.

  Like most pretty girls, Kelsi walked quickly. It was almost as if she knew someone was after her.

  Clay got to within a hundred yards of her. He said, “Kelsi! Hey, Kelsi!”

  Kelsi stopped. She turned to identify the source of the interruption. A brief smile spread across her beautiful face. She waved and then waited for Clay to catch up with her.

  “Hi,” Clay said when he finally did. “I thought it was you.” He was breathing heavily from the hundred-yard dash.

  Kelsi glanced at her watch. “Don’t you have Civil Procedure now?”

  Clay grinned. “Always the big sister, huh?”

  “Mentor,” Kelsi said, smiling again. “Always the mentor. It’s my job to give you grief.”

  They shared a laugh.

  Clay said, “Where are you off to?”

  Kelsi said, “I wanted to get Professor McDonald something from Mincer’s.”

  Mincer’s was one of Charlottesville’s many souvenir shops. It sold almost every UVA memento imaginable; from sweatshirts to key chains, all manner of memorabilia was available for purchase at grossly inflated prices.

  “Why?” Clay asked. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “I would’ve thought that he already owns more than his fair share of UVA stuff.”

  Kelsi brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Believe it or not, he doesn’t. And I was thinking that it might make him feel better if he could drink his juice or coffee from a UVA mug. You know, it might remind him of home… . Hospitals are lonely places.”

  Clay waved at a friend who rode by on a bicycle. His attention returned to Kelsi. “So he’s feeling better? The dean didn’t make it sound like he was doing too well.”

  “He’s not.” The color rushed from Kelsi’s face. “But I thought a UVA mug might help.”

  “It might,” Clay said, trying to sound supportive. He knew it wouldn’t, though. And if it did, he knew his uncle would have something to say about it. “Would you like some help picking one out? I’ve got a pretty good eye for crap. You should see my collection of UVA stuff.” He tugged on his UVA sweatshirt. “Besides, it’ll give me an excuse for missing Torts.”

  The smile returned to Kelsi’s beautiful face. “As your mentor, I shouldn’t be contributing to your truancy. But, hey, I’d enjoy the company.”

  The problem was, so would Clay.

  CHAPTER 35

  Kelsi found a UVA mug that she liked. Actually, Clay was the one who discovered it. Much to Clay’s surprise, the souvenir shops didn’t only sell crap. This particular mug was made of bone china, and the UVA logo affixed to it didn’t assault the senses like a neon sign on a skid row tavern.

  Clay waited patiently at the front of the store while the cashier wrapped the mug in tissue paper and tied an orange and blue ribbon around it.

  Kelsi signed the card that hung from the ribbon and then said, “Do you have time for lunch?”

  Clay spun around to make sure that Kelsi was talking to him. “Me?”

  Kelsi giggled. “Of course, you. I’ll even pay. It’s the least I can do after you spotted the perfect mug… . Professor McDonald will love it.”

  Clay recommended The White Spot for lunch. It wasn’t a racial thing this time. He loved greasy spoons. That said, dining at a restaurant with “white” in the name wasn’t lost on the young klansman.

  Their orders arrived quickly.

  Kelsi asked, “Where do you plan to practice when you’re done?” She nibbled on a crouton.

  Clay answered, “Charleston, I hope. But it all depends on whether I get an offer.” He bit into his house special: a quarter-pound hamburger topped with cheese, chopped onions, and a fried egg called a Gusburger. Frequent connoisseurs of this artery-clogging delicacy were lucky that UVA hospital was located across the street.

  “Why wouldn’t you get an offer? UVA’s the best law school in the South, and as far as I can tell, most of our classmates are interested in working in D.C. or New York. Charleston should be wide open for you.”

  Clay wiped grease from his chin. “I hope so. My family’s counting on it.”

  “Why? Is your dad a lawyer? My granduncle is, and he keeps dropping hints about wanting me to go back to Wisconsin when I graduate.” Kelsi smiled. “They’re not subtle hints, either. He sent me a mock set of business cards for my birthday that read, ‘Shelton and Shelton, Attorneys-at-Law.’”

  “That’s funny.” Clay popped a piece of stray egg into his mouth. “But my dad’s not a lawyer. No one in my family is. In fact, I’m the first one to graduate from college, let alone go to law school.”

  Kelsi took a sip of Diet Pepsi and then plunged her fork into her tossed salad. She was trying her best to avoid the caloric train wreck that constituted The White Spot’s menu. “Why do you have to go home then? With your grades and a UVA law degree, you can go pretty much wherever you want.”

  Clay fidgeted with a paper napkin. Clearly, he couldn’t tell Kelsi the real reason he needed to go home: to continue his work with the Charleston den of the Ku Klux Klan. Instead, he chose, “Because my mom is sick.”

  Kelsi’s eyes became as wide as the onion rings on Clay’s plate. “That’s terrible. Is she going to be OK?”

  “We don’t know yet. That’s why I need to go home.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Cancer.”

  Clay Smith’s sob story about his mother’s illness had an unintended consequence: he ended up at Kelsi Shelton’s apartment.

  CHAPTER 36

  After the third beer, Clay had convinced Kelsi to turn on some music. It had been Kelsi’s idea to turn down the lights. It wasn’t long afterward that the make-out session began.

  “I feel like I’m in high school,” Kelsi said as she came up for air. “Either that or in an episode of Desperate Housewives… . You should know that I usually don’t make-out with my mentees.”

  Clay pl
aced his hand on Kelsi’s breast, French kissed her for what must have been the tenth time in the past twenty minutes, and then said, “I’m glad it’s a standard, not a rule.”

  They both laughed. Law students were beaten over the head with the distinction between a “bright line rule” and a “flexible standard.” The former permitted no exceptions. The latter was essentially nothing but exceptions.

  “Can I see your bedroom?” Clay’s hand slid to the inside of Kelsi’s thigh.

  “OK.” Kelsi grabbed Clay’s other hand and led him to the back of her apartment.

  They stepped over a pile of casebooks. They maneuvered their way around a stack of commercial outlines. Kelsi was the first to drop to the bed. She unbuttoned Clay’s shirt and ran her fingers across his chest. It was easy to see that he spent a fair amount of time working out at the North Grounds Recreation Center.

  Clay sat on the bed. It was his turn to unbutton her shirt. For most guys, unbuttoning a woman’s shirt for the first time was one of life’s great experiences. This time was no different. Kelsi was wearing a black lace bra. Clay admired her breasts, moved his eyes from her chest to her face, and kissed her deeply yet again.

  They rolled around the bed like animals during mating season. Kelsi pulled Clay on top of her. She tore at the zipper of his pants. He tugged on the waistband of hers. His pants came off first. Hers quickly followed. She reached for his penis and placed it inside of her. Yet another one of life’s great experiences for a man: when the woman placed him inside of her.

  The sex was fast and rough. Clay was working off instinct. Kelsi was trying to forget. He said he was about ready. She climaxed first. He immediately followed. They lay back on the bed and tried to catch their breath.

  “Wow,” Kelsi said.

  “Ditto,” Clay said. “And I thought Nancy Ellsworth was good.”

  Kelsi elbowed Clay in the ribs. “Nancy Ellsworth, huh? I knew there was something going on between you two.”

  Clay rolled onto his side and pinched Kelsi’s button nose. It was his favorite part of her perfect face. “I’m just kidding. I’ve never been with Nancy Ellsworth… . She only dates law review types.”

  “OK. I guess I believe you… . Not.” Kelsi giggled and then said, “Would you like something to drink? There’s more beer, and I’ve also got 7UP and Dr. Pepper.”

  “A 7UP would be great, thanks.”

  Kelsi pecked Clay on the cheek, shot up from the bed, and headed for the refrigerator.

  “Are you coming?” Kelsi shouted from the kitchen. She placed two cans of 7UP on the counter. She popped the tab on one and took a long drink. “Hey, lazybones, are you coming or not?” She opened a cabinet and scavenged for some chips. Sex always made her hungry, especially good sex. She spun around and saw Clay standing in front of her. “You scared me half to death,” she said.

  Clay said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I guess I’m just light on my feet.”

  They both laughed again.

  “Here… . Your 7UP.” Kelsi tried to hand Clay the can. “Take it, lazybones. Take it.”

  But the reason Clay wouldn’t take the soda can wasn’t because he was lazy. It was because he was holding a knife.

  CHAPTER 37

  A fiery summons had been issued. The brothers had once again gathered around a bonfire deep in the woods on the outskirts of Charleston. The burning cross signified that there was a konklave underway. This time, there hadn’t been time to string a nigger from a tree. This was an emergency meeting called on an hour’s notice.

  Billy Joe Collier was the one who had called it. That wasn’t unusual. The Charleston den often met on short notice. What was unusual was that Collier had called the meeting on his own initiative rather than at the behest of Earl Smith, the grand dragon of South Carolina. The explanation for this breach of protocol? The meeting was about Earl Smith.

  Kludd Johnny Bates opened the ritual book and said, “The sacred altar of the Klan is prepared; the fiery cross illumines the konklave.”

  The konklave said, “We serve and sacrifice for the right.”

  Collier said, “Klansmen all: you will gather for our opening devotions.”

  Those words were usually spoken by Smith, but Collier had heard them often enough that he knew them by heart.

  The konklave sang the Klan’s sacred song. The chorus rang out:

  Home, home, country and home,

  Klansmen we’ll live and die

  For our country and home.

  Kludd Bates read more from the Kloran.

  When Bates had finished, Collier said, “Amen.” He rubbed his hand across his whiskered face. He almost always sported a three-day beard, and this day was no exception. Being well groomed wasn’t a prerequisite for working on the assembly line at the tire factory.

  Earl Smith stood straight, like a soldier. He knew what was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to take. Being romantically linked to a black woman was tantamount to treason in the Ku Klux Klan. In fact, it was listed among the offenses against the order in the original Ku-Klux Prescript of Reconstruction, the Klan’s original constitution.

  Collier said, “Hydra Cain, please bring Grand Dragon Smith to the front of the konklave.”

  Cain did.

  Collier said next, “Nighthawk Wallace, are you ready to proceed?”

  A nighthawk was a sort of investigator and watchdog who checked the character of prospective Klan members and their later conduct. Each local unit of the Klan had one.

  Wallace said, “Yes, Klaliff Collier.” Wallace stepped away from Smith and faced the konklave—the jury for all intents and purposes.

  “Proceed.” Collier was serving as the de facto judge.

  “Kigy.” Wallace nodded to the konklave. “My report’ll be brief and to the point. Grand Dragon Smith stands accused of datin’ a nigger woman.”

  “What’s the name of this nigger woman?” a member of the konklave shouted out.

  Unlike courthouse juries, the members of a konklave were permitted to ask questions about the defendant.

  “Cat Wilson,” Wallace said. “She works at the Waffle House down by exit 39.”

  Smith flinched when he heard Cat’s name uttered in public. He had known all along that his relationship with her would probably come back to haunt him, but he was too hooked on her to end it. She was like a drug—intoxicating but potentially lethal.

  “How do you know that Earl’s datin’ her?” another member of the konklave asked.

  “Because I’ve seen them together.”

  “Why? When?” These particular questions were phrased skeptically. Smith had a lot of friends in the konklave. He had been an effective leader for years.

  “‘Why?’ Because it’s my job to investigate problems like this. I am the den’s nighthawk. ‘When?’ On several occasions over the past couple of weeks. I started watching Earl after the incident involving him and Buck.”

  Wallace was referring to the fight that had broken out at the Waffle House when Buck Jansen had accused Smith of sticking up for Cat.

  “Where did you see them together?” The questioner remained skeptical.

  “Out at the Interstate 26 Motor Inn.”

  “They were at the motel together?”

  “Yep.”

  A gasp from the konklave.

  “I still don’t believe it,” the skeptical klansman said. “Earl’s too loyal to the cause.”

  “Believe it,” Collier interrupted, with an edge to his voice. “I saw Earl fuckin’ the nigger woman with my own two eyes.”

  “Nigger lover!” a member of the konklave shouted out.

  Smith’s eyes danced with fear.

  Collier held up his hand to calm the crowd. “Quiet, brothers. Quiet.” It worked. “Why would Earl do it, Nighthawk Wallace?” Collier might have seen it with his own two eyes, but he didn’t want to believe it was true. Earl Smith was his best friend.

  Wallace said, “I didn’t know why at first. I mean, I suspected why, but I
didn’t know why.”

  Collier asked next, “So what did you do?”

  “I followed them. I couldn’t follow them for long, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they went into a motel room and closed the shades.”

  “String him up!” a member of the konklave said.

  About a dozen klansmen rushed at Smith. Collier tried to calm the crowd again, but this time it was to no avail. The klansman who had called Smith a “nigger lover” took two wild swipes at him. But before anyone else could take a swing, another member of the konklave called out, “Sanbog! Sanbog!” It was a warning between klansmen. It meant, Strangers are near. Be on guard.

  The moment that was said, a dozen FBI agents came bursting from the bushes. The klansmen scattered as they had been trained to do since they were kids. This wasn’t the first time the authorities had come after the Charleston den, although it was the first time the Feds had done so.

  “Stop!” the FBI agent in charge shouted. “Federal officers!”

  The command caused the klansmen to run faster. They rushed through the brush like escaped convicts in a low-budget prison movie.

  Earl Smith stood frozen in place, though. He didn’t know why, but he did. Perhaps it was because he knew he had violated one of the cardinal tenets of the brotherhood and felt he deserved to be punished. Then he heard, “Run, Earl! Run!”

  It was Billy Joe Collier who was shouting his name—the same man who had convened the trial in the first place.

  So Earl Smith ran … and ran … and ran.

  CHAPTER 38

  Clay Smith made himself comfortable on the couch. Well, not comfortable… . He knew he wouldn’t enjoy what he was about to do. He should have done it when they were in the kitchen. He was still half asleep then, and he would have been acting on instinct.